Thursday, January 27, 2011

Oh, those wacky Chinese.

In 2007, sociologist James Farrer attended the
International Conference on Chinese Sexual Culture
, where he learned that the keeping of paid mistresses has become common practice for the nation's growing numbers of male, economic elite. This has caused profound distress among the bean-counters in the strict, Communist nation where monogamy has had such a long-standing tradition that even the slightest hint of desire or interest between unmarried adults can result in a lifetime of community blackballing.

This status quo was sublimely illustrated in film director Zhang Yimou's romantic tragedy Ju Dou, where the male protagonist is forced to raise his son as his brother rather than see his family's cloth-dying business fall into ruin over village gossip.

But, evidently not content to rely on the power of centuries' worth of social reprisals alone (or perhaps they've become sufficiently unreliable), the People's Republic recently announced its intent to develop a national database to track down and catch marital cheaters. One wonders if it's only because this matter is centered on a growing elite social class of businessmen and officials (National Bureau of Statistics chief Qiu Xiaohua was recently "caught"), that such a controlling, Orwellian step is being taken. China's Ministry of Civil Affairs plans to have such records fully available and online-accessible by 2015. What related news stories that already make it within the Chinese press attract a vast and captivated readership.

Certainly, rigid sexual restrictions have long been a means toward social control throughout human history. This has been no different in China. In the late thirteenth century, a code of "demerit points" was developed, the Shih chieh kung kuo lu, featuring an itemized, detailed list of the severity to specific 'moral crimes'. "Spur of the moment passion" with a married woman had a penalty of 200 points, but only 100 if she were the wife of a servant or a prostitute. "Having lewd thoughts about a woman on the street" warranted 10 points, having "lewd dreams" warranted 1, and even though the Chinese have produced some of the finest erotic art in the world, possession of such material would result in a penalty of 10 points per image for the medieval Chinese subject.

And modern Chinese sex-related laws are no less mysteriously categorized. "Buggery" (anal sex) with women under age 21 is currently punished by life imprisonment, even though the age of sexual consent is 16 and that any kind of sex with a woman under that age of consent only warrants a prison term of five years. Go figure.

In view of such extensive (and arguably voyeuristic) measures, perhaps it makes sense that prudish officials in the world's most populous nation would go to the postmodern extreme of developing a computerized record. Exactly how such a record would yield to the government's ability to "catch" cheaters hasn't been clearly explained in recent news reports, but one might presume that the online availability of such information could serve to inform female sexual prospects to men who might not be entirely truthful about their marital status when being pursued by them.

In a way, could that then be a step toward women's independent sexual empowerment in China?

Probably not. While a whopping 70% of the world's sex toy manufacturing happens in China, and that it has a booming sex trade despite heavy suppression, China nevertheless has a deeply ingrained sexual conservatism.

For example, a 2009 business venture to build a sex-positive theme park to be called Love Land in Chonqing, itself being a bold move for even most Western democratic nations, was shut down by the government before it opened. There won't be any public theme-park nude statues, or modern books exploring topics related to anal sex for that matter, where they sing the March of the Volunteers.

But then, while I'm not necessarily out to demonize Communism per se, this is a nation whose government's efforts to control and regiment life on all levels is so tireless that it is a crime for dead Buddhist monks to reincarnate without government permission. So perhaps we shouldn't be too surprised.

Sunday, January 16, 2011

A feast for the senses.

Young Kinkster, aka Lolita, writes to ask:

"I have a question that needs your attention. My recently-acquired boytoy seems unwilling to, as we said in high school in the 'hood, go down. Specifically on me.

"I've taken a lot of sections of his cherry but this one frustrates me to no end. How do I go about persuading some almost-virgin to do this for me?"

Short answer: You can't.


Well, maybe. It depends.

Read the long answer.

But first, have you tried tossing him into a crowd of drunken sorority sisters yet?

I'm going to begin with some comments about pussy, capitalism, and raising sexually informed men. Come walk with me.

One of the reasons that I am a strong believer in early sex education is because, in my view, it's the only way to undermine what mass market corporate advertisers impose on us from the moment we come screaming from the womb. Take the current trend toward bald (i.e, visually sterilized) pussy as an example.

Perhaps because of (mass market corporate) porn and its post-90s influence on pop culture, fashion, and advertising, throngs (thongs?) of women (and including, in some cases, children) have been starry-eyed foo-foo convinced that Brazilian waxjobs are de rigeur. It's the new conformity in marketed body modification. Consequently, hordes (hoards?) of men now may fully expect that the only "worthwhile" pussy is the seemingly pre-pubescent, bald, shaven one. This marketing concept has become so conceptualized into socio-sexual hegemony that I figure that the pressure on other (read: unoppressed?), furrier women feel must be huge. Big as a Victoria's Secret billboard.

Both feminist and queer theory have shown us how politically powerful bodies and sexualities are, and that's because of how fundamental it is to our personhood and identity. Genital modification is, and has been, used in cultures throughout the world as a means of social control for the same reason. How much difference is there then, for example, between young girls in Arabic cultures who are forced to undergo circumcision as a means of social control, and those women who "voluntarily" undergo cosmetic labiaplasty? Are they not arguably submitting themselves to the same end result? And for what? Because pussies terrify and deserve to be domesticated? Ok, YK, these examples are peripheral and extreme to your question, but don't they suggest that with so much control and unnecessary confusion imposed on women's (and men's, surely) genitals, is it any wonder that they remain such mysteries to most people?

In other words, sexual anthropology jargon aside, most men simply aren't appreciatively, reverently, respectfully exposed to a celebration of women's bodies... and as a result, are usually either terribly uninformed (at best) or are subliminally scared of pussy. There's a reason why the ancient Celts used sacred vaginal sculpture as a warning sign, not an enticement.

How could we break young men (and women, surely) away from that ignorance in their adolescence? Take the kids to a nudist resort. Please. Make some hot cocoa and sit down with them at the computer to explore the virtual Vulva Museum. Visit England and check out the sculptors at Brighton Body Casting, who have embarked on an extraordinary art project that will dash any notions or expectations about what women are "supposed" to be.

I know an excellent young man who developed a reputation as a superb, considerate, hot lover. He was raised in a polyamourous household in California, and in his late teens was introduced to the ideas of romantic sex-as-pleasure by various articulate and caring women. They taught him by discussing their experiences and what they expected from men. They used what could be described as softcore porn. They taught him that sex wasn't exclusively about procreation, but also about communication, and they taught him the basics of how not to fuck it up.

There are those in the world who might jump to the conclusion that this is tantamount to borderline sexual abuse, if for no other reason than his age at the time. Yet, he's been exposed to loving, caring, body-positive people who wanted him to grow to be a good man for his partner. Elsewhere, more sexually conservative, "legitimate" families do produce men who are abusive, controlling, selfish, socio-sexually inept, or fail to respect and value the women they profess to love.

Why am I writing this? What does this have to do with your boytoy not flicking your bean? Because when I was an older boy/young man/adolescent punk, pussy was as much an almost total, absolute mystery to me as it probably is for your playmate and most other men. Hell, it's only been within the last five years that I learned that the clitoris doesn't consist of the nubbin, hood, and shaft alone, but that its nerves and musculature are part of an entire wishbone-shaped mass that ensconces under and around the entire labia like an inverted horseshoe. Cool! Damn, I love it when there's something else to learn.

(Raise your hand if you knew that already. ...I'm counting about a tenth of you.)

So, to your question, dahlingk. I tend to shy away from seeking to "convince" a partner to do anything. My attitude is that if s/he doesn't already have a desire for something, the most you can hope for is to expose him/her to what it is you're into and make an effort at nurturing a new interest where none may have been before. You may find that he's simply not into it, and this might forever remain a sexual incompatibility between you. Whether or not that's a dealbreaker is up to you.

The Tomboy doesn't particularly like to suck cock. It disappoints me, but I'm mature enough to deal with it and choose to not let it bother me as long as I'm just her occasional lover. But if she were my primary partner (and especially if we were going to be monogamous), it'd be a Problem.

Yet, in a way, Cherry Boy's inexperience can also be to your advantage! If he's game, it might even provide you with a rare treat.

He's so new to his sexuality that everything is a fresh slice of pie. Apart from whatever it was he was stroking his cock to before he met you, all topics, nuances, and experiences remain fair game. Uncharted territory! If you have the patience, that might be fucking hot for you. You have become his sexual initiator, and as long as you're aware that almost every move you make will leave a longlasting impression on another human being's sexual consciousness and confidence, you could be in for a riproaring time. But it's a big responsibility.

I lost my virginity at 17. A late starter by some standards, but I more than made up for it by doing on-stage bondage performances within the next two years. Me, once the opportunity presented itself, I was eager to give my partner head and went at it with gusto. In retrospect, I wasn't particularly good at it then (too fast, too much pressure, not enough handplay, clueless about body language), but what's a kid supposed to know?

But it sounds like Cherry Boy lacks even the zeal. Assuming that he's at least been jacking off to images of women before you came along to offer him your delicious, flesh and blood self, then there's a reason.

He may simply be that selfish. So many young dudes are so focused on their own exclusive pleasure that it's become a stereotype. If Cherry Boy's among those ranks, I'd suggest that it's time to update your dating site profile.

He may be very shy. If he's otherwise trying to be a good lover, then he might not have the confidence to give it a go. I'm less inclined to believe this, but it's possible.

If it isn't selfishness, and if it isn't shyness, then (for him) something is standing in the way between his mouth and your body.

(I'm about to tread on some very sensitive territory. Caveat: as a man, I feel wholly unqualified to intelligently remark on the functioning of women's bodies or sexual health, and God knows guys have been doing that for centuries. What follows is strictly from my own experience and how I think I can best articulate it. We're all adults here.)

For the uninitiated young buck, bringing one's face and mouth and tongue to his lover's pussy can be a world-class adventure. Even young, experimenting proto-lesbians would, I'd think, have some clues as they share the same anatomy, but young lads feeling thighs on their shoulders for the first time have almost no idea whatsoever of what to expect and how "she" will respond. Pussies are complex, beautifully feral creatures that, for the mortally clueless, take a little getting used to. There's a full and rich orchestra happening there with diverse colours, scents, fluids, shapes, nuances, textures, zones, personalities and all of which capable of shifting its needs, demands, and sensitivities at a moment's notice.

When he places his face to you, it's your scent, wetness, and texture that's going to greet him first. You already know that. Like many women, maybe you've had some anxiety about that because, let's face it, sometimes men behave like insensitive morons.

For his book Coming Of Age In New Jersey, sexual anthropologist Michael Moffat "went undercover" and lived among coeds in the Rutgers University dorms to study sexuality among college students.

"Oral sex did not touch off alarm bells of guilt in either females or males as often as did "going all the way," he writes. "(Oral sex) dilemmas were more often that of hygiene. Men and women worried about learning how to do it and about whether or not their partner enjoyed doing it to them. Men complained occasionally about vaginal cleanliness."

Now, I know you're an intelligent, healthy person who knows how to take care of her body. I also know that if you did have some obstetric concerns and its possible relationships to your sexual wellbeing, you surely wouldn't be asking a man who writes a damned sexblog.

But consider this: what you know is a wonderfully healthy, happy pussy may not be what he thinks is a healthy, happy pussy. Brie takes a little getting used to when all your palate knows is cheddar.

A big part of his (current?) aversion probably is about your body being so foreign to him. He may be a little overwhelmed by all those new scents, juices, and textures. He's so new to sex in general that, despite what he thinks now, he really hasn't too much of an idea of what he's into, and not everything that he'll be into later will be something he'll crave right away. Some things take time, and for many lovers, enjoying oral can be an acquired thing.

Only once in my (younger) life did I make the mistake of suggesting to a partner that perhaps her cleanliness was an issue. I know now that it wasn't, that the cunnilingus experience I was receiving was perfectly natural and normal... but, like so many other guys, I never expected that the perspective problem was with me rather than a body issue with her. The partner in question was terribly embarassed and took to vaginal vinegar douching, which many now know isn't completely advisable. I wasn't rude or crude in my approach, but once I learned more, it became an important lesson for me. Embarassing a lover is no fun.

It took a little time, and a few lovers, before it really became clear to me how extraordinarily different bodies can be and that scent, taste, texture were as equally varied woman to woman, diet to diet, happenstance to happenstance. Eventually, learning the subtle nuances in scent, taste, texture a new partner's body might possess became part of the reason I'd be eager to feast on her. And the first time I'm with a lover, I'm always going to feast on her. Count on it. But it took time and paying attention before I got there.

So let's assume that it's his unfamiliarity with your yummyness that has him holding yellow flags. Because, let's face it, he's clueless. You ask how you can "persuade" him. I suggest that you try some playful games.

If you enjoy foodplay, you probably already know that whipped cream is the signature oral enhancement. Warm fruit nectar, maple syrup, canned cherry pie filling (poetic justice!), honey, crushed fresh berries, cream... anything that's wet and messy that makes it to his face can help him bridge the foreign sensation of stickiness while also blending with the (natural, healthy) scents and fluids that he's still learning about. Slice papayas and mangoes and smear them on one another. Use plastic bottles of chocolate sauce like water cannons. Enjoy the post-gooey-fuck shower together.

Roleplay some power exchange scenes like "Private Tutor." You're the professional sexual surrogate contracted by his wealthy guardian to teach him the "arts of pleasing a woman." His massive inheritance is completely dependent on your assessment of his ability to follow instructions. He does exactly and expressly what you tell him to do. Or "Cleopatra's Slave," where his very life depends on his ability to please the sovereign Pharoah queen as he kneels, head back in submission, waiting to be ridden. "Stick out that tongue or my guards will yank it out with pliers, you loathsome Greek!"

And when he's ready, get naked and read Violet Blue's Ultimate Guide To Cunnilingus or Ian Kerner's She Comes First in bed together. Make some popcorn and check out Nina Hartley's Guide To Better Cunnilingus DVD.

But sooner or later, if he has any hope of being a good and appreciated lover, he's going to have to wake up to the fact that pussies have fluids and scents and expressive diversity. If he's having a boundary with a perfectly healthy, natural, happy, properly enticed quim, dude is going to be awfully lonely. And doesn't he know that getting a rep for giving good head can only work for him?

As an added bonus, I polled some joyfully moistened blog readers (hi guys!) to share their thoughts about your plight. (See what perks there are when you become my Facebook friend?)

"How might you respond if your lover refused to go down on you?"

The Fearless Consultant was straightfoward: "That would be a no-can-do moment. I'd find out why, and if it were a pattern, it'd be see ya!"

"I think it's a deal breaker," replied Alise from the French spanking bench. (J'ai manqué voir vous là.)

"Not only is it selfish behaviour," she rightfully tells us, "but it would make me question his feelings towards the female body and women in general. If a guy wants his dick sucked (and which one doesn't) and thinks that should be his gods-given right but dislikes going down on a woman, then maybe he should consider trying a bloke so he won't have to worry about there being any vaginas in the equation. Even knowing the guy doesn't particularly like doing it and does it under sufferance is a deal breaker for me.

Sextoy Hostess was more patient, but to a limit. "As long as it isnt a regular occurence, I wouldnt worry. Sometimes I want what I want and I would imagine that he's the same, or we just want to get right to penetration and a quickie is just right. But, if it's regularly one-sided, I don't think that's fair. It's selfish and I probably would begin to feel cheated out of the enjoyment. I'd probably discuss it with him to find out why he isn't going down any longer. If he continued to NOT, I would take ORAL pleasure away from him as well. If that didn't change his mind I'd probably ask him (sarcastically) if he minded that I invite a girlfriend over while he's at work to replace what he's not giving me."

Poet and visual artist Shane Girl (no, not that one) would also have limited patience. "Depends on why he refused and if it's something he's done before with me. There really shouldn't be a refusal. No WAY! Otherwise, I'd need to figure out if this was his first time kissing below the belt and may give him a coaching lesson. He might love it! But if it's not his first time, then I'd need to know what the hell is wrong. The cootie is clean, free of germs and diseases, so why not? It amazes me when men want their knobs polished but don't want to return the favor, or if they're over-sensitive about doing something they know will drive a woman CRAZY!

"If he played his cards right, he'll know that's one of the ways to grab a woman's attention, providing he executes the tongue just right. There is a technique. Otherwise, it's not a two way street but a one way dead end, and then he's outta there.

And Boots, who tells me that she sweetens herself before an evening's feasting with milk and honey baths, reminds us exactly what it is that Cherry Boy is missing. If I could, I would pat her man on the back. Maybe he and I should take this kid behind the shed and learn him up some.

"I am concerned for your reader, the poor thing. My heart (well, my heart and elsewhere) go out to her.

"Having been beautifully and thoroughly attended to, year after year, with regular worship by my good husband's mouth, I cannot begin to imagine this girl's plight. When I think on the lovers that have come and gone, I cannot recall a man who didn't, at the very least, aim to please with his tongue and intentions, even though a fair few would do well to stick to receiving rather than giving.

"My man loves to pleasure me. And, oh my, he pleasures me well. His passion for tastings and tongue-fuckings is truly a thing of wonder and delight, and therein lies the key for giving good head methinks... That your man is unquestioningly enjoying himself whilst nose-deep within your wetness, to
feel a man moan whilst his tongue explores your depth, or while he sucks and gnaws upon your eager clit... mmmm... to hear and feel and know that your lover is relishing in your scent, your texture, your wetness and your waves of pleasure is such a delight to the senses. He grows hot and swollen with lust 'tween my glistening thighs, not limiting himself to location nor limb, and it pleases me to see him so hard in his enjoyment as he worships my wellspring.

"After twelve years of his mouth on my cunt, he still brings me to that place of leg-shaking, panting, squirting exquisiteness. He teases with a mix of lip, tongue and finger, making my hips rise in anticipation and longing. A finger slowly circles my folds whilst teeth nibble at my turgid clit, and a tongue licks the length of my seam then pauses at my arse. A finger slides in there whilst another circles the button elsewhere, and he's eating me, hungrily. The stubble on his face is dripping with me, and he loves it. His tongue is at its length as he laps me up, his hot breath upon and within me, and I cum in his mouth. Hard.

"The wave washes over my body, and he inserts another finger into my tight arse, and moves his mouth to my clit to suckle while his other hand delves deep into my cunt, and my orgasm is kicked back up to the full height of eye-roll-back-pleasure.

"I do hope her man finds his manners, as poor head is surely poor etiquette."

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Big ones that got away.

The previous post had me remarking (ok, fine, bitching) about how winter probably will look like as far as my dating life is concerned.

That said, it seems like a good time to share three little stories from years past about "possibilities" that didn't turn out as well I might have wanted. I'm sharing these because I think of these incidents often, I really do, and I still wince even when I smile to myself about them. Oh, the pain.

The Exchange Student

New Jersey, 1997. I was the alpha male in what basically turned into an off-campus student house. It was a large, sunny place near a major university, and it was the first pad I had after the break-up of my seven-year relationship with Diva. I took in housemates to make ends meet, and they always seemed to be students.

She was from Japan. Long, straight, raven-black hair and a lithe, winsome form, her English was broken but her grace and charm more than made up for it. She came home with the most bizarre seafood-based snacks, and she laughed at my attempts to make California rolls with the wrong kind of rice.

I knew that she had a boyfriend. And maybe I was being a little clueless, whatwith me in a very strange post-longterm-relationship headspace. But on that evening when she casually stood with her shoulder against the doorframe to her room, oh-so-subtly beckoning me to come in and see the tiny Japanese mat that she used for bedding, something in me just wasn't seeing the signs. Long ago, a female friend had told me that I didn't always See how a woman flirts with a man, and this must have been one of those cases because the Exchange Student looked terribly disappointed when, perplexed, I excused myself away.

Oh, it breaks the heart.

The Flirt I Will Never Forget

Two or so years after it happened, I still think on this lost opportunity with pained laughter.

I was dating someone, and we were going to a then-trendy little out-of-the-way pub that hosted ambient drumming nights. My date had her djembe, and her young son (who was with us) was borrowing my ashiko to play. As we approached the pub from the street, I spotted a cluster of women on the club's patio, including one wee faerie in particular. We made eye contact as I opened the door for my date and her child, and I felt it right in my chest.

As the evening progressed, I would eventually find myself enjoying a pint at the bar while my date and her boy played among a circle of friends. An hour or so had passed by, and I was basically giving her some mother-and-son time to help him enjoy this otherwise all-adult night out. My presence as the-guy-Mommy-is-out-with was still an adjustment for the young man, although not a problem, but I was perfectly game to make things as easy as possible. After all, sooner or later, he gets a bedtime, right? Ain't I a nice guy?

I spill my pint at the bar. I'm totally embarassed, but I'm laughing about it, and that gets the bartender laughing with me as he refills my glass. My self-effacing humour must have been refreshing to those in earshot, because soon others are in hysterics too... and that's when I realize that the person right beside me, back to me, is the same woman who made eye contact with me at the start of the evening. Oh, dear.

She's tiny. Her hair is a cluster of tight auburn spirals, and the face that is framed by this dark coppery mane is full of character, laugh lines, thought, and intelligence. Her eyes grip me.

"Um... hi," I manage to stammer. She smiles. We make small talk. No, I hadn't spilled my beer on her. Thank God.

But soon she's putting on her coat, though she stops for a brief moment when she hears me quietly say, and with genuine disappointment in my tone, "Oh, you're going."

Her face was full of real apology. "Yeah, I have to go. I have friends waiting for me." A pause. "Are you here with someone?"

I can't lie, and I'm sure my face was full of apology too. I was. I was still very unsure about where that was going, it all being new at the time and with me already sensing possible deal-breaking cracks in the pavement, but yes, I was there with somebody. I said so, but I think she also read the underlying message because smiled more and opened up.

But you know what? I had stopped really listening. Not to be rude... but I was totally transfixed by how dropdead beautiful this woman was and how resonant her energy felt to me. She's wasn't glamourous, she wasn't pretentious, she wasn't wearing the look of some woman seeking to emulate a cosmetics advertisement... she was simply herself, auburn ringlets and simple all. So I found myself playfully nodding a lot, smiling wide, jerking my head in yeah-I'm-listening movements that, at the same time, were a comic exaggeration. She got the hint that yeah-I'm-listening-but-not-really and stopped talking. Once she did, I shifted the energy with a joyful smile and a still gaze directly into her eye. She looked right back into mine, and after a moment's silence as we held each other's consciousness that way, I spoke clearly.

"You are... gorgeous."

There. It was out. No nonsense. Straightfoward. A man whom she had never met before just came right out and told her like it was, and she remained completely still for a second before blinking her eyes. "Did he really say that?" her expression read. She stammered for a moment and brushed herself closer. I broke the eye contact to move my head aside as I took a sip from my glass.

"I just wanted to tell you that," I continued. Her face was radiant. She complimented me in return. We locked eyes again.

"I just have to know your name," I asked earnestly. Her smile beamed and her eyes twinkled under the red lighting at the bar.

"Morgan." I laughed, remembering another I have known.

I sighed deeply. I thought to myself that, in my experience anyway, when a pride of women are out-on-the-town together, their priorities are to stay that way. I was torn, but decided to back off gracefully.

Stupid move.

"Your friends are waiting, Morgan," I said with a smile, gesturing toward the door with my shoulder, "Go." Two or three women stood outside on the pavement, chatting and smoking cigarettes. And at that, Morgan slowly, she very slowly walked from the bar and me and this extraordinary moment to go out the door. After a glance.

And to this day I wonder what could have been possible. I shake my head at the thought. Sometimes I wask myself if it's at all possible that I'd ever run into her again.


It is possible, though God knows how faintly, that a thang with Bree still isn't an impossibility. While we're really very close and have a deep friendship than spans more than twenty years, we both are pro-poly people.

Bree is one of my best friends, and throughout our sharing together, there's always been a delicious undercurrent of sensuality. To me, she is one of the most beautiful, extraordinary women I have ever, ever known, and I mean that in every conceivable way.

A petite, athletic, Latina shorthaired brunette, Bree is an early40s medical researcher with a genius mind and the patience of a saint. There was a time when we were massage buddies, each visiting the other (and our respective partners at the time) to break out the almond oil, strip, and coax away our stresses. Superbly delicious days, those.

We'd go out to dinner once in a while, usually to discuss various projects we were both invovled with, but there were times when those dinner converations would turn to more personal topics. I still remember how she confided in me that her then-partner refused to accept her bisexuality and latent interest in transgendered women. I still remember, as we noshed on Mexican food and had one margarita too many, she whispered how much she really liked being fucked in her ass.

And I have seen Bree's ass. Oh, I have seen. She is sculpture, with a pert heartshaped, dimpled, olive-toned derriere that never failed to make me completely skip a heartbeat whenever my eyes beheld it. And were she to turn about and display that dense, black, perfectly rectangular trimming of fur under her navel... I can't begin to tell you how long I have wanted to drop to my knees, gently grasp her upper thighs, and feast upon her.

And she has seen me too. She was visiting Diva and I once, and I strode from out of the shower. Entering the room where these two exquisite women were, a towel barely wrapped around my midriff, I glimpsed a glaze in her dark eyes as she sat on the hardwood, a glass of wine in her hand, her sight riveted to the penis that swung from beneath the Egyptian cotton.

It was after that break with Diva, and in that same off-campus house, when we Almost Happened. She had come by for another massage visit, the first we would share in a long time, and things were on the skids (but not broken) with her then-partner too. I was skittish... I'll admit it... because, truth be told, I've had a crush (and still do!) on Bree for all the time I've known her.

She sat on the edge of bed as we talked. I was at my desk, which was very close to where she was, so close that when I stood to go in the kitchen for more of whatever we were drinking that I had to pass very close to her. I skirted my jeans-covered ass along the corner of the desk to avoid coming in contact with her... but that only served to have me angling my out-thrust groin very near her face as she sat on that bed. Prior to that, our afternoon together was full of friendly energy alone, but as I skirted by, her gaze went immediately to my bulge. And I saw the change in the look in her eyes.

I wish to God that I could tell you that I stopped, that I caressed her hair, and that I slowly unzipped those jeans while that bulge remained at face-level to her. I can't begin to tell you how often that possibility has crept into my fantasies, how much (and for twenty fucking years) I've wanted Bree to suck my hard, hot, thick, silken, flexing, pulsing cock. But I didn't.

What I did do was give her another long, sensual, hot oil massage. But this time, it was different.

We relaxed on cushions on the floor in a very Bohemian way. Sandalwood filled the air as I blended heated oils in my palm. She had removed her shirt and remained in bra and jeans as she knelt away from me. Gentle music. Quiet talk. Soon, she lay herself down and the bra was removed as her skin glistened in the low light. Like every massage we shared, it was an inwardly fulfilling experience for us both. I miss those days.

She had reached under herself to undo and slightly lower her jeans when I started working my warm fingers around her dimples at the small of her back. She wore no underwear that I remember. It didn't take long for my cock to stiffen as I felt the energy shift from sensual touch to something... else.

Her breathing quickened. At those moments when she might reposition herself slightly, I glimpsed her breasts enough to see that her nipples had hardened. Her hips began gyrating just... slightly. I swallowed and took a breath.

"Ok," I whispered, trying to control my own breathing and the strain of my cock trapped by my own jeans, "how does this sound? ...Just stop me if what I'm doing is becoming too much..."

We already had a deep trust with one another, so I wasn't at all surprised when she whispered just as quickly as I was breathing. "Ok." She looked at me from over her shoulder and smiled. She is so beautiful.

Slowly, painstakingly, I lowered her jeans. My heart was thundering in my chest as I peeled her denim away, and as she raised her hips to launch her behind upward, as her exquisite, perfectly shaped, muscular, naked ass was unveiled mere inches from my starving gaze and dry mouth.

In all of my sexual life, this memory is one of the strongest to ever remain with me.

My massage continued, but by now it was less about relieving her tension than it was about worshipping her body with hot oil and firm, slow, sensual kneads and caresses. Her flesh was tight in my grasp, and I relished how her muscles moved between my thumb and forefinger as I squeezed her in slow, upward, gripping strokes. When her thighs parted slightly, the faint sight of her dark muff and her beautiful nexus made my head swim. I count faintly, just faintly, detect her clean and feral musk amid the swirling scent of oil, and my cock stiffened even more. I desperately, desperately, desperately wanted to suddenly drop to the floor, grasp her ass in my hands, bring my face to her, and slide my tongue straight up the seam of her pillowy labia in a wide, wet stroke.

With a heavy breath of self-control, I leaned back and undid my jeans. I reached inside and withdrew my phallus from its brutal confines. She raised her ass a little higher. I held her cheeks in each hand and spread her open. Lowering myself, I slipped my shaft right into her gorgeous crevasse and began to glide the length of me there slowly, feeling her behind hold me in slick, hot, strokes. Her dark, starry anus glistened with oil, and I bit my lower lip as I felt it against that broad vein at the underside of my shaft. I held my cock from its base and tapped my spongy head against her there, and then rubbing it in fast motions right against that beautiful, winking hole. Bree relaxed on elbows and knees before me, her body glowing after the massage, breathing deeply and quietly. It was a moment that I had longed for, and to this day, long to have the opportunity to do again...

...Because I stopped.

Yes, it's true. I stopped. It took all of strength to force myself to, but I stopped. Why, in the name of God, did I fucking stop?

Because I was trying to be the Good Guy. Because while I was single, Bree really was not, and these were still days when "open relationships" were a rocky, challenging, and only occasionally successful thing among my circle of friends. "Polyamory" wasn't even a word in our vocabulary yet. Because I love her, and in some twisted place in my head, I didn't want to see something happen that might fuck something up. Call me an idiot, but that's how it happened.

Sure, at the time, I thought we might connect again, that we could still make something happen if she still desired it. But the opportunity didn't present itself, and within the next year, I was moving to Canada.

And, sometimes, I see her in my dreams.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

Ice fishin'.

For reasons that are totally unrelated to what I share on this blog, words can't express how relieved I am that 2010 has drawn to a close. Sure, my dating and sex life took some interesting turns this... uh, last... year, but other arenas in my world took even bigger jolts than the ending of my essentially-monogamous thang with Kara and becoming single again. The current economic downturn has certainly cut a swath over here at Rogue Enterprises, International.

Those other complications will probably take its toll on my dating life too, so who knows what'll happen, and what might or might not get shared here, in the coming short-term. But that's ok: God knows that I'll have plenty to say even if my bed is slightly quieter for a time. I'm not necessarily expecting a repeat of 2009's winter blight, and there's been some interesting prospects. I thought I might share.

I was very definitely winsome for a possibility with Rollergrrl. Um, yeah. It's so rare that I find myself that potentially attracted by someone simply through a dating profile and a phone conversation or two. Call it (on my part anyway) digital chemistry, lucky stars, happy algorithms... but in the end, the dude she was seeing, on the outs with, becoming otherwise disappointed with, seemed, at the last moment, to get his act together and treat Rollergrrl right for a change. Maybe I shouldn't have wished him luck... Still, it was nice to feel my chest tighten over possibilities again, and I still smile when I think about it. (Hey. You reading this? Good. Now let's set that just-friends date up for a pint or four, mm?)

So, 2011 is opening without me seriously seeing anyone. That's ok: it's fun to enjoy the options.

Kara and I still see one another, as friends, and get together when our hectic lives permit. She was over at my place for dinner recently, and much to my intrigued surprise, agreed that, yes, she'd potentially be interested in still getting together as kink playmates from time to time. Interesting. Mm.

Having recently rekindled some lustful play after several years of just-friends, I'm pretty confident that the Tomboy would enjoy getting together again too. We live far apart now, so if that were to happen, it could be a long while, but it's feeling good to have reconnected.

Once she learned that I was single again, Biting Tina started some heavy Facebook flirting with me. It's a little challenging because one of the reasons I put a stop to things between us was because of her apparent inablity to respect basic personal boundaries, and since I've already (politely, nurturingly) told her that I'm Not Interested, her persistence has been noticable. Should I feel complimented?

Dean tells me that she still thinks of me from time to time, which is always nice to hear. She also tells me that I should go to a damned munch "and get a girl." Ain't she cute? Since Molly keeps me on the guest list for some local polyamory socials, maybe I should consider her advice.

Hey, Morgan. You listening? C'mere with those tight jeans and spankable, pantied behind, damn you.

I'd love to get together with the ever-elusive, ever-mysterious Stacy again, but she's dropped from the face of the earth again. Not that she really would make for sound grrlfriend material, and that by her own past admission.

And that's part of The Thing. Sure, the male stereotype is to be simply chasing women to fuck, to (as Vesper Lynd put it) "see women as disposable pleasures rather than as meaningful pursuits." Truth is, I'd love to be pursuing that meaningful pursuit, and when the Fates have her cross my path, you best believe that I'll be open for her. But I'm also sober and adult enough to know that each of these aforementioned daughters of Aphrodite, outstanding and glorious felines they are, aren't necessarily seeking that. So I keep the dating site profile updated.

It would just be nice if some of the women to respond positively to my profile there actually, you know, lived in my region. Call me crazy. The Hippiechik... in Winnipeg? The Kinky Ph.D.... in Cleveland? The Rennie... in Flushing? Nice to know that the Blonde Gardener has added me to her "favourites" list... but she's in fucking Pittsburg. Please, please, guys... you're killing me here.

(And that includes you, Boots, you delicious raven temptress you, because you're on the other side of goddamn planet, even if you dangle statements like "have cunt, will travel" before me. Wench.)

Ok. Bikerdyke has me hot. She's (sorry, he's) local, thank God, and a genderqueer, shorthaired, countercultural subbie who's seeking a broadshouldered Daddy. Nice play possibilities there, if we ever get around to meeting. Hm.

Aggressive Subbie (really, that's what one of her online tests calls her) is intriguing, even if she tells me that I'm "not normally her type" (see below) but apparently interested enough in my profile that she keeps checking it out and wants to meet. But do I want to revisit my thoughts about having kids? Hm.

There is this creative, lithe, shorthaired faeriewench among my FetLife friends who stops my heart whenever I see her, and she's openly seeking a playmate these days... but how do I feel about her interest in watersports? Hm.

And, ultimately, here's the skinny: Yes, a deep, mutually rewarding, not-just-sexual, life-planning sort of relationship would be outstanding. Partnership is where it's ultimately at over here. I'm open, but still, I'm not holding my breath, man. More and more, I'm getting the sense that the single women of Toronto are exclusively interested in exactly the sort of neo-conservative, goose-stepping, corporate drones that I most certainly am not. Pity for them, no? So meanwhile, I think there'll be a lot of "ice fishing" for me this winter, and who knows what might or might not happen.

Now where did I put that rod and reel?

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Congratulations, baby.

Through the magic of the Internet, I've just learned that Shayne has given birth to a boy.

I've been thinking about you lately. He's beautiful.

Despite all the unnecessary nonsense, it'd be nice if we became friends again one day. Heartfelt and genuine congratulations, Pixie. I have no doubt that your son will grow to be as creative, sensual, freespirited, and courageously happy as you have been. Blessings to you all.

Die einreichende Walküre.

This post may be a little anticlimactic and a little surreal, and if so, it's only because this most recent experience was as well.

The Valkyrie and I have been Just Friends for more than ten years.

We met when I was first visiting Canada, before the damned marriage that led to me taking residence here. I'd been visiting Toronto to teach some workshops, quickly found myself among a crowd of mostly interesting people, and immediately wound up seduced by one of her friends (but that's another story). The days when I was more innocent and impressionable.

(Oh, shut up.)

I visited Canada more often, dated other women from among that crowd of interesting people, and eventually moved here to pursue the aformentioned marriage-made-in-hell (and again, that's another story). But the friendship between The Valkyrie and I continued to grow, mostly founded on our shared interests, our drinking, and generally being opinionated, outspoken people in a British commonwealth nation where no one tells you what's really, truly, honestly on their fucking minds.

The Valkyrie is a very Teutonic, early40s damn-near-platinum longhaired blonde BBW who would look absolutely natural were she to come to dinner dressed in amber-decorated armor and carrying a seven foot pike bearing the head of her ex-boyfriend. She'd be the perfect alewife, clad in a heavy boustier and with her massive fists sporting two or three pottery tankards of frothing brew, except that she's far more likely to be among the drinkers at the worn wooden table beside the fire than she would be the wench to serve it.

Yes, it's true, she and I have been flirty with one another for years and years. Yes, during a mutual birthday party that we threw for one another, I semi-drunkenly tugged her into a private nook to give her a "friendly" kiss. (...Um, ok. I thought it was a private nook... it wasn't unti, loooong after when I was told her then-boyfriend witnessed thw whole thing. Oopsie.) And, yes, it's true, over the years, she's talked to me for friendship and counsel about her own sex life on the rare occasion.

But, and I swear on a stack of Prose Eddas, everything in the back of my mind was simply Just Friends flirtaciousness. Really.

Alright. There was the one time she came over my pad for dinner and there was... this tension... and the underlying question of, "Valkyrie, darling, are you here because you wanted to fuck?" It certainly seemed that she wanted to. Over a few glasses of wine, the question hung in the air, but in the end, both word and body languange made it clear that she had reservations. So nothing happened. And that was fine. We've been Just Friends, after all. And it quickly was put out of my mind. No worries.

So if you're getting the impression by now that there's apparently been this odd, lingering, hot-and-cold vibe from the Valkryrie, you'd be right.

Now try to imagine where my headspace was when, totally and completely out of the blue, I suddenly get this call from her some time after public knowledge among my friends was that I was single again. My headspace was in Complete Dismissal when it came to the Valkyrie. Totally off my radar. Not even a blip in the fuckability option department. Long gone.

So when she starts asking for my advice about how to best approach a bdsm scenario that she's been thinking about, I blinked a little to myself (because, lemme tell ya, the Valkyrie woulda been the last woman I'd have expected to have submissive fantasies) and simply offered my straightfoward, friendship-based, objective thoughts. Not a problem. Happy to help. That's what sex-positive friends are for, dude.

But what began as an unexpected little chat with an old friend quickly became a bizarre, though not unpleasant, gradual mental gymnastics session of leapfrogged ideas and expectations. Let me explain.

Let's call it a "performance art project" that she wanted to pursue, and one that would involve the Valkyrie submitting herself to an experienced dominant male who would escort her through a bondage experience that would intentionally result in her orgasm. That we share some background in such things is one reason, as she said, why she approached me, plus she knew about my background in kink, and she trusts me. So, when I invited her over to my place for a relaxed dinner to discuss all this with her in detail, I thought I'd be trying to learn more about her (sudden?) interest in kinkplay while also trying to get an idea of what sort of art piece she was envisioning. Because, over time and further discussion, it was apparent that wanted me to be her partner in this.

Whoah, said I to myself. So, my inner voice continued, you're not just asking for my thoughts, but to be my playpartner for said art piece? Hrm...

Maybe I would have been more relaxed had she just come out and asked me to do this from the get-go. I know I wasn't entirely thrilled to have had to put it together, despite the fact that such a request was, in reality, a charming and sensitive offer. But I'm kvetching.

She comes for dinner. I make some succulent marlin steaks in a light ginger-tamari sauce with butter-sauteed creminis. She breaks out some really excellent Hells Angels hydroponic cannabis. Good food, good hard cider, good weed, and a good friend who seems to be rekindling an interest in my bod and I'm feeling very, very nice.

But the Little Voice in my head knew that something was still amiss here, although I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps the best decision would be to take things one step at a time. Test the waters. See what's what. There'd be plenty of time to see where the Valkyrie's head was at as far as her submissive fantasies were concerned.

And it was when I was in this thought, in this cannabis-hued fog, when she stood close to me and pressed her double-D treasures against my arm and kissed me deeply.

"I've been waiting for you, you know," she said.

Had I been totally sober, I might have quirked my head to one side and asked her about that. But I wasn't. Instead, my hands reached upward and were soon squeezing two handfuls of very blonde, very German, very big tit, and I couldn't stop the laughter at the unusual (for me) experience of it all.

The bedroom. The Valkyrie, topless. My hands and mouth, feasting. Her wide and pink areolae. The snap of her jeans before my face. My teeth at her fleshy ribs as I undid it and lowered them. Denim being pulled down her legs. Her white panties. Her shaven mound. Her thighs in my hands as I closed my eyes and feasted, elsewhere, again.

I knelt up, stripped off my shirt. How odd to see my longtime friend before me, on her back on my back, naked. How interesting to see myself lubing my hands as she parted her strong legs wider. How the heat of her clung to my skin after I teased her open and began to slide my fingers... one, two, three... four... two from one hand and three from another... deeper, gently pistoning, moving inside her body. Her pussy opened like an orchid for me, and the Valkyrie gasped and bit her lips as she clutched the sheets, panted, and screwed her eyes tight. My hands glistened in the lamplight. She came into my palms.

On my back. She's kneeling beside me. My hands caress through her long, perfectly straight, platinum hair as the back of her slowly bobbing head fills my hand gently. I'm sinking into the pillow as I feel the cider, the weed, the food, and her soft and open mouth gently taking the head of me inside. It's a relaxed, slow movement that she's doing, no real suction to speak of, but a gentle bob of mouth and lip with the occasional dart of tongue. Gentle. Pleasant. She holds the base of me firmly in her fist, her face away from me, her body leaning against mine.

"You are just so... perfectly shaped," she tells me between tastes.

(Mm. Nice. I love it when lovers tell me that sort of thing. In my experience, so many women don't say what they're liking. Tell me. Men like to hear it too.)

I tug her up, bring her face to mine for deep kisses. My hands slowly down her spine, her hips, grasping her generous behind. Her kisses become deeper still when she feels my fingers teasing her rosebud, and her heart quickens. She's straddling my thigh, grinding her core against me.

I get the hint. I slowly spin around and over her, and she's already assuming a yielding position as she pulls a pillow under her breasts and parts her legs while raising that butt a little higher. My thighs at either side of hers as I kneel up, reach into the drawer nearby, and warm the lube in my hands before teasing her crinkled hole with it. By the time I'm noisily stroking my hardness and getting it wet, she's biting her lower lip and whispering very quietly.

"Yes, please, God, yes."

The tip of me against her, and I'm surprised at how fluidly, how easily she takes me in. She tenses just slightly, but soon I sense it's more from pleasure and expectation than discomfort, so it isn't long before my fists are just above her shoulders as I deeply stroke myself into her body. I'm fucking my friend of more than a decade in her ass.

She's gasping, her eyes clenched shut, repeating my name. I set myself to thrust my cock in long, steady strokes and feel the perspiration between my shoulderblades. I hold her open more with a palm gripping her right asscheek as I piston myself inside her in consistent, steady motions until she starts to stiffen underneath me. Shudders. Quaking. A brief moment of total, ecstatic silence just before her loud shout and whimper as she feels her cum build and finally crest while she's getting taken. I don't relent, I don't slow down just yet, I don't show her mercy, and she's getting the full length of me deep.

Her eyes open, her breathing steadies, and only then do I relax and bring myself to a gradual stop. I withdraw, we cuddle, and snooze for a short while in the lamplight.

"I think," she slowly says after I've left the bed to warm some towels for us, "that... that's the first time I've ever cum by being fucked in the ass..."

I smile. The rest of our evening was relaxing, full of talk and discussion, before we drifted to sleep. It was nice to not be in an empty bed again. The cats squeaking in the morning. A light breakfast. Tea. Showers.

"Would you like to fuck me in my ass again?"

I did note that this post would be anticlimactic. I was certainly anticlimactic, and experience has taught me that when I don't cum with a lover, there's usually a subliminal reason. True, that frequently happens the first time I'm with someone new, but my cells were telling me that it was something more.

Was it because she and I had been Just Friends for so long? Maybe. But if Bree ever found herself in my bed (and you'll learn about Bree in a future post), I have no doubt that my bursts would reach the stratosphere. So maybe it was because during our friendship, it's been on-again, off-again flirty with the eventual (seemingly) entrenched conclusion that Nothing Was Gonna Happen.

And maybe it was because, once this new vanillafucking started, the Valkyrie seemed to speed from zero-to-sixty. She wanted to share a bdsm-related art art project with me. Really? Sounds like fun! Ok, let's talk. She's been "waiting for me." Waiting for me? But... you've been blowing me off for years. No, she wants to be my playpartner. Uh, ok. Can we still talk about the project you want to do? No, she wants to be my slave... whoa, that's a big step, you sure you know what you're... She wants to be my girlfriend. Huh? Um, hang on, maybe cool, yeah I'm single right now, but you're going a little... She wants to see me every weekend... fast here...

Now, you'd think that I, being single now and potentially thrilled to encounter a partner with a passion for kinkplay and someone who already knows me really well, would have been flying high happy. But I'm also conscientious and a little bit of a cynic, and when my synapses are starting to hit overload, I've learned to listen.

And I like the Valkyrie. I really do, but I was starting to feel a little railroaded. I was still adjusting past the wait-we're-Just-Friends stage when I was being essentially told what my weekend schedules would start to be like.

You like me? Awesome! You wanna fuck me? Sweet! You want to splay yourself across my lap and be my playpartner? Cool! You wanna be my girlfriend? Yay, great!

But... could I be included in this decision-making process too?

It's slightly challenging to write this sort of thing because, you know, I'd be thrilled to be in a bonafide relationship again. I would. But if I can't do it with my eyes and head and heart and voice and priorities and boundaries open, being listened to as much as I work hard to be listening, then hey, I'd rather stay single. Good sex is great, it's a requirement, but dude, it isn't all of it. Not for a relationship.

So I was on the threshold of having A Conversation about this consciousness with the Valkyrie and see about happily working with her in her kinky art project alone for a while when the Fates helped decide it all for me. Within three weeks of our tawdry tussle, she had explored a kinky social site enough to connect with someone else, another male Top, in another city. She seemed smitten.

Oh. Ok.

She actually asked for my permission to pursue this other guy. What struck me the most about that was that, by doing so, she clearly had already developed kink expectations that I was her Top. I wasn't. Not by a long shot. One (ok, two) assfucks and a homecooked dinner does not your Top make.

Do I need to vanillafuck every potential subbie playmate before I consensually, happily use&abuse 'em? No. (Oddly, had I just dove straight into bdsm Top-headspace instead of as a relaxed-guy-just-taking-her-out-on-a-date-and-getting-to-know-you with Little Ginger, I very probably would have had her as Silly Putty in my hands too.) But because of all the mental gymnastics I found myself in, because subbie play is a totally new shiny for her, because sometimes I worry about her headspace and any possible fragilities under her double-D armour, I wanted to approach things an ittybittytitty step at a time.

Had she been collared by Me, yes, asking would have certainly been appropriate... but in my mind, we had barely scratched the surface. I never had a chance to catch up to the paradigms that she seemed to increasingly, rapidly want.

And trust Me, had I taken her under my glove, she would have fucking known.

We're still friends, of course. As best as I can, I've decided to keep a discrete eye on her because she's a kink beginner and God knows there are some pretty loopy dudes out there too. If it comes up again, maybe, yeah, I'll see about helping her in her project. But, as I continue in a nonpartnered world, I'm also a little relieved.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Auld lang syne.

Bringing in 2011 was a relaxed, stag affair for me. I even turned down an invitation to a fetish event, and instead simply kicked back with some casual friends one of my favourite pubs.

But that doesn't mean that my mind and heart weren't entirely elsewhere as I tossed back a few pints before the bubbly came out of hiding.

Of course, Kara was on my mind. We brought 2010 in together passionately, with relaxed, languished, shared oral as we dressed for an evening out at a pansexual club where we would enjoy on-stage sexplay and shibari bondage as part of the festivities. Her beautiful ass would find itself soundly spanked in public, and she looked charming in my Top man's leather cap as I drove us back to my place later. We woke in the morning to even more fun as I took her from behind in the way we both enjoyed so much.

Her new year was brought in among family, children, and friends as part of a week-long holiday away. Nice.

Taking Shayne to a New Year's burlesque show remains among my favourite memories. I still recall how delicious she looked as she put on the red dress, and how sweet her skin tasted with the Japanese body lotion, that she received for Christmas. It was 2007, the last time I would fuck her spankable ass, and our evening together was a drunken, hysterical, ribald ball.

I have no idea how she brought in 2011. Most likely, she shared it with her man in the Pacific Northwest, and held her bursting belly warmly as she contemplated becoming a mother in this new year.

And, certainly, as I held a glass to my lips in my charming British-style pub, thoughts of the Grrl crossed my mind and heart. It was 2003, and the dimly-lit, golden-hued wooden cottage house was aglow with joy and sensuality as we cuddled and danced with champagne flutes in our hands. The entire house smelled of a roaring fireplace, and I was passionately in the depth of love.

I suspect that she will have brought this new year in with whomever she's seeing now, if she's seeing anyone now, and with joy of having recently become a grand-aunt.

I love and miss you guys. You remain within me.